Sherlock's Area
by poetanddidntknowit34
Summary: It had been years since he'd even thought about Chloe, and even more since he'd last seen or talked to her. But when John asked him if he had a girlfriend, that first night they'd met, it was no wonder the memories snuck back in again.
1. Chapter 1

It had been years since he'd even thought about Chloe, and even more since he'd last seen or talked to her. But when John asked him if he had a girlfriend, that first night they'd met, it was no wonder the memories snuck back in again.

Sherlock was 16 when he met the 19 year-old girl from the States. Young, blonde, and mature in body, she was a force to be reckoned with amongst the other students. Her jeans always fit a little too snug, her t-shirts always showed a rumor of the skin of her stomach, and her long eyelashes batted slowly and sensually over bright green eyes. Sherlock had been taking classes up at the University, having tested out of secondary school before even starting it. Chloe had grown up in America and decided to further her education in London. She was in Sherlock's chemistry class, and was terrible at it.

"Your name's Sherlock, right?" She batted her eyes and sat down at his lab table one day.

"Yes." He said stoically, not even looking up from the test tubes he was setting up the lab that day. "Why?"

"Did you know that you're like, totally smart? Do you need a lab partner?" Before getting an answer, she started moving test tubes around ('wrong', Sherlock thought to himself).

She was an idiot just like everyone else, but to this day, Sherlock Holmes blamed his hormones and those stupid t-shirts for what happened next: he said 'yes'.

He liked her, despite the empty space between her ears, and every time she touched his arm and laughed (he still didn't know what was so funny all the time), it sent shivers in spikes of electricity down his spine. So when she came to class one day, touched his arm, and, with a slight blush on her cheeks, asked if he would escort her to the homecoming dance, he definitely said yes.

"Well, well." Mycroft leaned in the doorway to his brother's room. "Sherlock Holmes attending a dance. I thought you said social gatherings were 'dull'?"

"Go away, Mycroft." Sherlock mumbled, fixing his dark green tie around his neck and trying for the sixth time that evening to tame his hair; the unruly curls just weren't listening. It was true, though, that he normally would have scoffed at and not attended a dance or party or anything of that sort, but this time was different. This time, he felt like he fit in.

Chloe's dress was as green as her eyes, and her hair cascaded in glittering curls down to the hem of the low-dipped back, and her bright red lips had Sherlock staring all night. At his request, she'd worn flats instead of heels, because the teen was still growing and his gangly frame was just barely taller than her in flip-flops. The tops of those glittery silver shoes took a beating throughout the night and managed to turn Sherlock redder than the ruby around her neck.

But the American girl just giggled at his embarrassment; she thought it was cute, and found his awkward winces and apologies to be endearing.

That night, he got his first kiss.

He was walking her back to her apartment on campus, and the stars overhead were unobscured, though the wind was a bit chilly. She had his jacket, and it took all his willpower not to shiver in the cold. "I had a lot of fun tonight, Sherlock. Even though you can't dance!" She teased him playfully, smiling in the way that made his blood roar loudly in his ears.

"Sorry, again." He mumbled, looking down at his shoes and silently cursing them for not being able to move in rhythm on their own. That's when it happened.

He was about to say goodnight, when Chloe grabbed the back of his head, weaving her fingers in the curls at the base of his neck, and smashed their lips together. It was messy and foreign and Sherlock clearly didn't know what he was doing, but rather just let her take the wheel, his brain cataloging everything, so he'd be able to replicate and lead the next time. But as soon as he got used to the sensation, it was gone.

She left him to stumble back to his car, the drapes of his mind palace on fire and nothing working correctly inside the halls for the rest of the night. "How was the dance?" Mycroft asked when he came through the door. Sherlock only shrugged before scuttling up the stairs to his room.

From then on, Sherlock spent his afternoon at Chloe's dorm, helping her do her chemistry, math, history, any homework she needed help with (which was pretty much all of it). Then, they'd order some take-away and eat together, or Sherlock would pretend to be interested in a movie she wanted to watch. But, for the most part, they just studied together. Chloe needed an astounding amount of help in her classes, and Sherlock was happy to be of assistance. Mostly because when she succeeded, he was rewarded. When he would come over after class, just walking right into the dorm (she never locked it), and found that she'd passed a test, she'd snog the living daylights out of him, until he was dizzy and couldn't breathe and was left to find his car on weak knees (it didn't help that he had no blood left in his brain to remember where he parked, either).

One day, he'd walked in to find that she'd received an 'A' on a test. An 'A'! He wasn't really even sure if that was possible, because he did most of her homework in that class, but there was the proof, right there in his hands. That time, it was different. He stood there, awkwardly looking at the paper, and half-expecting his kiss, but instead he found himself being hurtled onto her couch, hands running all over her chest.

He was confused, everything was happening at once. Lips on his neck, fingers moved down his torso, his head spinning out of control. hands were moving southward, and suddenly expert fingers popped the buttons on his trousers. He panicked and grabbed her wrists. "Wait."

She sighed in frustration against his neck. "What's wrong, babe?" She looked up at him through her lashes.

"It's just... I've never... Well, I just don't know yet if..." He couldn't articulate his thoughts and fears. Everything about a relationship was new to him, and he was barely even used to snogging yet.

She sat back on his hips and pouted. Toying with the buttons on his shirt, she whimpered, "Don't you love me?"

"Actually," Sherlock was shocked by himself and his feelings all of a sudden. "I.. I think I do. Yeah. I love you, Chloe."

"Good." She latched herself onto his neck again, her fingers finishing their earlier project. And in that moment, he finally gave himself over to his feelings, and gave himself fully to her.

The rest of that year came and went, and finals were the worst part of it all. But, soon enough, they were over. Sherlock had deduced the password to Chloe's online grades ages ago, so when the results of finals came out, he didn't wait to see how she did. She'd passed every single class! It was a small miracle, but Sherlock was happy nonetheless. So, he decided they needed to celebrate.

He used his brother's connections to get them a table at a nice restaurant, and he dug his suit back out of the closet. He even bought her flowers! Opening the door to the apartment, he found it empty. He was about to call out to see in Chloe was deeper in the dorm, when he heard her giggle in her bedroom. "Chloe, I got you some-" The sight that greeted him when he turned the corner made his sentence freeze in his throat.

Chloe was sprawled underneath Brian from their chem class, calling him all the sweet little names she'd used on Sherlock every day since they'd first kissed. Both were clad only in their pants, but Sherlock couldn't see anything through his tears anyway. "Chloe, what...?" He couldn't find any words, or any oxygen to form them with.

Chloe looked up briefly and rolled her eyes. "Scram, brainiac! I'm busy!" She saw the hurt and confusion deepen on his face. "What? You think I actually cared for you? You were an easy grade and an easy fuck, but now it's time to fuck. off!"

Sherlock turned on his heels and ran out of the apartment, and didn't stop running until he stumbled into the front door of his house, leaving his car on campus. He practically broke down the front door, running in at top speed before collapsing on the living room rug in front of the fire.

It wasn't the first time Chloe had made him breathless, but this was a new lack of oxygen, one that was accompanied by a pain in his chest and tears for the first time in years. It took him a moment to realize the flowers were still in his hands. 'To my first and only love'. The card mocked him now. Sherlock snarled at it and threw it into the hearth, watching the flames lick at the sentimental flora he'd fed to them, until long after the fire had smoldered to cinders and ash.

He started smoking cigarettes that night, replacing the flames of the hearth witht eh glow of a smoke and lighter.

The pain dulled and disappeared completely, even, as the years stretched on, but the lesson she taught him never faded. Now, as The Woman names him 'The Virgin', and Mycroft mocks him about sex, and even as John asks him if he has a girlfriend, all he can say is, "Not really my area."


	2. Chapter 2

It was years later, almost a decade, in fact, since John and Sherlock moved in and solved their first case together. A few years after 'the fall' and their reunion, a couple after Mary's unfortunate death, and even a few years after Mycroft's diagnosis. And over those years, the memories of Chloe disappeared once more into the confines of the mind palace. That is, until a particularly tricky case forced him to face his demons. Literally.

It started with a disappearance, and turned into a murder. A wife went to The Yard to report her missing husband, and when the man turned up dead in a hotel room a few days later, Sherlock was put on the case. It was obvious that he'd slipped away to visit a mistress, but not so obvious that the mistress was the killer. When the clues all clicked together in the genius's head, the solved case caused him to lay stoic on the couch, silent and unmoving for several days. He was thinking. Considering whether or not he was going to apprehend the murderer himself, or send Lestrade a name and leave it at that.

Finally, he settled on a happy medium, and Lestrade, John, and Sherlock found themselves standing on the porch of a large mansion house just outside of London. The DI rang the doorbell, and an American woman with long blond hair and emerald eyes opened the door. "Police, ma'am. May we come in?"

The eyes flitted from John, to Lestrade, but when they fell on Sherlock, there was a mischievous glint to them. "Of course." She led them to a sitting room and gestured for them to sit on the couch. Sherlock remained standing, and not even a single feature in the marble face moved, especially when Chloe sat herself down on the couch, practically on top of John, and crossed her legs, very visible under the extremely short skirt. "What brings you officers by?" She flashed her melting smile in John's direction. "Especially such a strong, dashing one as you." She extended a red clawed hand, and John took it, a blush covering his whole face. "Chloe Melbourne."

"Uh, John Watson." Sherlock frowned as he saw the cogs stop turning in John's head.

He cleared his throat and the small party turned to look at him across the coffee table (Lestrade had been shamelessly ogling their suspect as well). "Mrs. Melbourne, we're here about the murder of Robert Greyson, I'm sure you're familiar with the name." His glare was hard and hot. "Seeing as you killed him after you two met up on January 6th."

John's jaw dropped. "Wait, I thought the husband was the murderer?"

"I never said that." Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving Chloe as she got up and went over.

Standing as close as she could get to him, she placed her hands flat on his chest and purred. "I had to kill him, love, you see he was-"

"An easy fuck?" Sherlock cut her off.

Fear flashed momentarily in the green eyes, before she tried a new tactic. "Oh, my little Lock-and-Key," She snaked her arms up to wrap around his neck and pet the base of his curls just the way he liked it, "I have missed you, you kn-"

He grabbed her wrists so fast it shut her up and caused John to jump to his feet and pull his gun. Chloe squirmed under his gaze and grip. "Babe, you're hurting me."

"Never call me that again." He practically growled, throwing her hands down to her sides so hard, she dropped the floor. John and Lestrade were standing in the vacuum of an awkward moment, and could only watch the confusing events unfold before them. "Get her out of my sight." He said to Lestrade, his eyes still burning with anger.

"You always were a coward, Sherlock Holmes!" Chloe yelled after him. "There wasn't much of man to you then, and even less now. You didn't even put up a single fight that last day of school."

The last sentence was like a wall that Sherlock walked into. It stopped him, spun him around, and pushed him back into the living room. "You stole everything from me. My ability to trust others, my patience for normal people, but especially my innocence. Rot in hell, Chloe Jones!"

He stormed out of the house in a flurry of black trench coat, leaving behind a smirking killer to get clapped in hand cuffs. John had to run to catch up with his friend. He'd never, ever seen Sherlock lose his cool like that before. The doctor decided this was a story he would never ask about, and would probably never hear, especially since Sherlock snapped at him, too, when John tried to take his cigarette away.

They walked in silence all the way back to 221B, Sherlock having made his way through three smokes before they reached their front stoop. Still, the detective didn't speak, only made his way to his room, and remained there for the rest of the evening, and all through the next day.

John never did hear the story from Sherlock, but apparently their murder suspect told the whole story, almost as if she were bragging about it, to a disgusted Lestrade.

Three months later, a news story came out about a blond-haired American woman who had been killed in prison. Sherlock and John had been passing a news stand, when the black and white photo jumped out at them. Sherlock only paused to read the caption under the picture, then continued to his destination, though John swears he saw a little smirk.


End file.
